Just as I was despairing it was gone forever, my gardening mojo came stealthily creeping up on me.

I never saw it coming and despite feeling myself to be horticulturally bereft, suddenly found I was dunking seeds prior to sowing them in the heated propagator. This was all so out of the blue that I didn’t have all the equipment needed and was scratching around for something suitable for making holes in the compost.

Remembering that I’d put a pair of give-away chopsticks in my rigger boots by the back door, I set off downstairs.

(By way of explanation any small-ish items en route to the garden/greenhouse end up in the boots to ensure they end up outside. Mostly I remember to check before putting my feet in).

Passing through the living room, I was challenged by the OH who was sitting in front of the goggle box. The exchange went something like this:

“Do you know why they’re showing repeats of Gardeners’ World?”

“They aren’t – Monty Don’s back doing it.”

“So where’s this?”

“His garden.”

“So what happened to that new place?”

“Binned, I guess.”

“They must’ve spent tens of thousands on that.”

“At least.”

“Of taxpayers’ money.”

“BBC’s money.”

“That’s our money. The license fee is a tax. That’s a disgrace. Someone should be sacked for that. And where’s Alys?”

(OH likes Alys).

“No idea.”

“And why have they got these two numpties back?”

At this point Joe Swift and Rachel de Thame were helping an old lady spread a thin layer of partially decomposed sticks, purporting to be home-made compost around her plants.

“Ah, it’s the End of Days. Ragnarok. Twilight of the Gods. Time is folding in on itself and has started running backwards.”

“You do talk rubbish.”

“Beats watching it.”

“You’re right” said the OH changing channels.

“Tune back in in a couple of months. Maybe they’ll have Chris Beardshaw back.” I quipped, disappearing back upstairs.

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